Ethyl Acetate
by siriusondrun
Summary: Sense memory and nostalgia, brought on by the smell of nail polish. Inspired by art by Pixolith on tumblr.


**A/N: This was inspired by the fact that I got a new job that doesn't suck and that gives me an hour-long built-in lunch break upon which I can go into quiet corners of the office and write; and by ****http : / / pixolith .tumblr .com / post / 12922364772 / shameless -repost- because- i- finally- got- around- to ****because Pixo is amazeballs talented (and probably wishing by this point that I would stop ruining her art with my shitty oneshots LOL).**

**Disclaimer: Glee is not mine.**

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><p>Dave's mind begins to wander to the drizzly place Mr. Dean's history class always sends it when the smell hits him. Acrid, astringent and cloying, he knows it at once: nail polish.<p>

The smell of nail polish always makes him think of math, no matter where it comes from; more specifically Mrs. Greene's freshman-level algebra class at McKinley. That class had been the catalyst for two separate occurrences in Dave's then much shorter life: the first being the realization that he was actually pretty good at math when he made the effort and the second being the first time Dave had really noticed Kurt Hummel.

Everyone knew _about_ Kurt Hummel, of course; a five-foot-nothing rail with helmet hair, a high-pitched voice, and a tendency to use SAT vocab words on people who were probably never going to understand them was hard to miss. But until that math class Dave had only really been aware of the other boy in an abstract sense, as something to be hipchecked in the hallway or pitched into a dumpster and nothing else.

The best part about Greene's class was that as long as you made some sort of effort towards the homework and turned in the tests, there was no way you could fail it. Dave liked being able to simultaneously keep up his B-average GPA and make it seem like he didn't give a crap about his classes any more than any of his teammates seemed to. No one paid much attention as the lecture went on, cell phones buzzing under desks and wads of paper flying through the air. Dave amused himself by doodling a Jurrassic Park-style velociraptor eating the quadratic formula on his notes page; he was working on adding in as many pointy triangle teeth as possible when the sharp smell first hit him. He jerked up with a snort, nose wrinkling in protest, to see a thin, pale hand held out in the aisle beside him. Three of the short, perfectly rounded nails were glossy and wet-looking all over, the other two half-streaked with clear polish each. Kurt Hummel turned his head to the side, inspecting the paint job before pulling his hand back in to finish the others. Dave sat dumbstruck, a shock of inexplicable _feeling_ slowly dissipating through his system. He'd never actually seen Kurt Hummel this close up before, and wasn't sure what to think about it. Kurt Hummel (the full name was needed, Dave thought, as this bizarre person made of equal parts infamy and elusiveness needed some kind of title), was...odd. Dave almost wanted to call the other boy pretty, as it seemed the only really accurate rating to give, but it wasn't even that simple. He had the most unlikely conglomeration of features that were at once soft and sharp, a rounded face capped by a thin, slightly snub nose and a pointed chin. It was like his face was having a fight with itself of whether it was going to be girly or masculine and was slowly coming to a truce between the two. Dave wasn't sure if he wanted to keep staring or break the other boy's nose for making him want to. He settled for watching the other boy's hands and he expertly brushed on the polish and inadvertently committing the moment to memory.

Dave sometimes wonders what would have happened to them if that day had never happened. If he'd sat down in his usual seat across the room rather than wanting to sit by the window because of the late-fall good weather, or Kurt hadn't decided algebra was the perfect time to give himself a manicure, what would have become of them? Would they have ever even met, other than as adversaries? Would Dave have ever been spurred to fixate on the other boy the way he had, ending up going too far? He supposes not, but can never make himself think decisively that his life would have been better that way.

The final bell of West Lima High rings and the spell breaks as Dave remembers where he is rather than where he was. The girl who sits in front of him is packing up her things, books and pens held gingerly with pads of fingers only to avoid smudging the bright yellow polish on her nails. She notices Dave looking and smiles faintly before slinging her bookbag over one shoulder and walking away with fingers outstretched and flailing to dry. Dave runs a hand over his face with a sigh, trying to shake himself out of the funk settling in. This is his fresh start, after all; a new school with new friends and teammates who never have to know or care about how big of a closet case asshole he was before. No reason to get all nostalgic.

As he's putting his book away in his locker the solution to cheering himself up comes to him in an instant. It's Drag Queen Wednesday at Scandals tonight and if there's one thing he can be sure of, there's nothing a couple good beers and a round of pool with Tina Turner can't fix.


End file.
